Kids, Stay Out Of The Sun Or You Just Might Get An X-Rated Post

I grew up in Florida never using sunscreen and living very near a beach. So I have spent a lot of time in the sun. Sure, my mom slathered sunscreen on me when I was younger but as I got older it was probably my responsility to attend to my own sun blockage and, well, that went by the way-side. In fact, I would use the tan accelerator. Caribe made a good one or a bottle of canola oil would work just as well.

I'm not proud to admit that I still use very little (translation: none) sunscreen. Last summer at the beachhouse? Never used sunscreen. And I do know better. I read Natural Health and Self and they are telling me, "Sun badddd!" I know it. The wrinkles and the cancer risk. I know it. Yet it just goes with my live-for-the-moment thinking that disallows me to look anywhere in my future for an impact of what today may have on it. Therefore, sun tanning only equals olive complexion. That is as far as I can see it. For the most part. Because it does weigh on me slightly. So I do my part and get my moles checked every couple years and that hard lump 0n my arm too. I am told all my moles and freckles are no concern right now so that is good news but I always have the most interesting visits to the dermatologist.

My first visit a couple years ago - I ended up being a medical case study. A class project. Folks, I was a lab rat.

It started with the usual walk back to a little room with the nurse informing me of protocol. "Put the robe on, opening in the back. Strip down to your underwear."

Then a young female doctor in a white coat entered the room followed by two very young-looking gentlemen sans coats with clipboards. Female Doctor let me in on the jig, "Would you mind if these Georgetown medical students observe?" And what do you say to that? At that point another doctor - the older, wiser, gray-haired one who was actually doing the mole check entered the room.

And he got down to business.

"Drop your gown."

So there I am in just my girly britches (thong, of course) with four people looking on. Yes, those interns had clipboards and were intently following the doctor along on his probe of my body. Because there is the Gray-Haired Doctor on all fours (literally!) starting at the bottom, circling me on all fours working up my legs with a blue pen circling suspect and/or of-student-interest marks. He continues to work his way up my body, pausing to inform the students of the varying sun marks. He's teaching a class, y'all and I'm the blackboard apparently. And for that dark black one right smack in between my boobs? The Old Doctor asked the interns to take a "closer look."

There I am in all my nakedness girly britches, pocked with blue circles, and eight eyeballs scanning my body. And all I can think about are my own self-image issues. Are they seeing what I am seeing?

It was horrifying. For that reason, I will never agree to interns sitting in on any kind of doctor appointment in the future.

Today's visit was not as horrifying but had its own brand of awkwardness.

First of all, the doctor looked like he had a bad sunburn and some red splotches on his face. I thought, "This is my dermatologist?" And then I thought that was good because I knew he was not going to chastise me about all my freckled sun damage. And he didn't.

Oddly, he wore this miner helmet with a headlight to scan my body. ["Are you looking for the mother lode?" --Pixies] And he had me lay down. He started at the top, ruffling through my hair and as he worked his way down my body he tore away my gown, shining th eheadlight as he went. Ripping a little here and there. So there is that and then there is the conversation to go with that. He chooses to talk about "what I do." He is very curious about librarians and librarians in law firms and are they using books anymore, etc. So while I am justifying my career I also feel I need to justify suspicious moles (i.e., my reason for being here).

So while I am trying to be cordial and talk "shop" I am really pointing out all the moles I wonder about and subsequently bringing his attention back to me and my naked body with a light scanning it. On second thought, let's talk about libraries, Doc! In the end, he thought everything on me was peachy. There were no blue circles this time.

So, if nothing is suspect, I began to question why I go to the dermatologist. Why I continually put myself through these horrifying experiences. Why I choose not to use sunscreen. Is it really worth it? Because I am practically getting felt up by my dermatologist.

Against All Odds

Tuesday night I met up with Jon Jon and all I could think about during the whole date was, "How did I end up on a date with my uncle?"

Wednesday night I met up with M and all I could think about during the whole date was, "How did I end up on a date with (a younger) Phil Collins?

Thursday night I met up with The Flirt (and Mav) and all I could think about during the whole date was, "How did I end up on a date with Jack Tripper? Three is company."

I am starting to feel that tug towards The Flirt but it is not strong enough to make me all doe-eyed schmoopie. I've got the big girl goggles on. We have a lot of fun together, moreso than any guy I have probably ever dated. And the more time I spend with him, the sexier I find him. Peter Pan and I had some fun but with him it was Grand Gesture Dating. Formal. Staid. I was courted. But to be perfectly honest, I like the ease and banter I have with The Flirt. It's No Pressure Dating. No games. I can text him at any point just to say "hi." And he will do the same. But the deeper I fall, the more I might miss romance. So perhaps he is not what I am looking for? But he does his own Pixies concerts for me and I get to do Kim's vocals. That is fun.

On Wednesday night, I was proposed to by M within 45 minutes of the date. I think it went something like this, "Your beautiful. You have the sexy librarian thing. You drink High Life. You have impeccable music taste. Now if you tell me you like sports I will have to ask you to marry me."

"Well get down on bended knee, darlin, because I do like sports. I called LSU over Duke. Who said it couldn't be done?"

And so he proposed and all I could think was, "Phil Collins just asked me to marry him."

That night, The Flirt texted me to tell me goodnight.

Tables Turned

Guy and girl hang out.
Guy cooks girl dinner.
Guy burns her many CDs of music she will like.
Guy serenades.
Guy emails thoughtful links throughout the day.
Guy drives her all around.
Guy always comes her way.
Guy would like to see her more.

Girl is kind of indifferent to guy.
Girl thinks guy is funny.
Girl has fun with guy.
Girl doesn't think she is attracted to him.
Girl thinks she only likes him as friends.
Girl and guy continue to hang out.

Then something happens.
Girl sees guy in a new light.
Or is it the effects of March Madness and alcohol?
Girl might see something in guy.
Girl finally asks guy to stay the night with her.
Guy turns her down.
"Not like this."

Now girl might like guy "like that."

I've Always Liked The Piano

I haven't been talking about my dates as of late. Trying to be church mouse about it. It has been steady. There have been some dates - none, horrific, and none, rocking my socks off. I have said it before - it is my lackadaisical approach. It is not a choice. It can't be helped.

But I will venture out now - because I got a big mouth? - no, just because one "date" is party to the following story.

Remember the guy I call The Flirt? Well it is interesting. He is actually more shy than his emailing and texting forwardness would have me believe. He calls me, emails me, or texts me everyday. Yet, I am just not that into him. I see him more as a friend. A friend that I kiss so I am possibly sending him mixed messages. Or maybe he will grow on me? Nonetheless I have gone out with him a few times. Most recently, Wednesday night.

The night is best summed up as follows:

Bon Jovi As Lounge Act

The Flirt emailed me late afternoon Wednesday to see if I would like to get together. Now, I'm not big on going out during the week, especially when I had been out Monday night and had plans for a late night on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. But because of recent stress I wanted to get out. And male attention is not a bad thing.

I agreed to a drink. Two martinis later I agreed to dinner. So off we went to a little Vietnamese restaurant. Saki was sipped. And then I found myself agreeing to having a beer. So off we went to the little piano bar across the street.

At the piano bar, there is a.....Piano Man! A guy with a piano with a schtick because Piano Man was doing his best gruff Tom Waits voice. Some may find that annoying but I kind of like a guy who doesn't actually "sing." Like The Flirt was doing (and does on most of our dates). I always get these "creative types" who hold professional jobs by day so they let out the creative spirit tenfold. For some reason, I hate guys singing from front to end, i.e., the whole song! That's fine - sing along softly, sing the chorus, sing a line in my ear. Just don't do your own performance. We've got Piano Man for that! I think The Flirt was doing his own little lounge act.

Before you ask, yes, Piano Man did play....Piano Man. Cliché police arrest that man - or me. At this point The Flirt leans into me and says something about singing this song related to something about when he played his guitar for me last week. (I was serenaded! Still, only a teensy bit of me minded the singing. Because it was accompanied by the guitar afterall. It was no a capella car-singing gig. And there is little sexier than a guy with a guitar.) Anyway, because I can't hear EVER, much less in a crowded bar I said, “Oh, is this a song you played for me?” Because there were many songs he serenaded me with. He took requests. See? It was a gig.

“No, silly, this is a piano song.”

“Big deal. That might be kind of cool to play on the guitar. Irony? Tori Amos did it with Nirvana songs. Therefore, I think you should learn it.”

I don't think he thought it possible. But I know there is a whole world of possibilities with which to reconstruct music. Take it outside its normal boundaries. I know, because I witnessed the following that night. I quite possibly saw it coming because he had just played The Band - on piano. This guy was on a roll with re-contextualizing songs. Into lounge form.

Piano Man informed the drunk sing-alongers that he was going to leave for a 10 minute break. But before he broke, he gave the crowd a teaser, “When I come back I will play something from New Jersey!”

Just like that. So the guessing began. The Flirt says that is has to be Bruce. I pipe in with the “but what about bon jovi” idea. The Flirt considered this but thought that Bruce was the more appropriate artist. His music being more translateable to a piano.

After the 10 minute break, Piano Man takes his position as Wednesday Night Lounge Act in Georgetown. Singing for dollars and pleasing crowds. Fame and glory or dashed dreams. Anyway, he started that little diddy "...from Jersey."

My friends, it was, in fact, “Living on a Prayer.” The piano version. As only a lounge act with a schtick knows how to play.

Of course, this was sung out loud. By the whole bar.

Lah-dah-diddy-dah

Photo Leary

I am working on this theory.

In posting an online profile, girls will comb through every photo they have EVER taken and get everybody's opinion - biased and unbiased, known and unknown. A girl believes dating success is hanging on that one photo.

In fact, you might have a "photo shoot" just to get the right picture. You might plan it around a visit to the hair dresser. Because how on earth are you ever going to get your hair as smooth as Chris - er, the hairdresser - does? Perhaps you will visit the makeup counter at Nordstrom's that day. But only because you needed new blush anyway and while you're there you may as well get the works! You will even get a manicure and pedicure. You are at your most prettiest now, girl! And you will most definitely wear your favorite underwear that makes you feel sexy. And always go with the black top. That is always flattering. After all this, you will get the right picture. But only after several takes, of course. Then you will post only those that came out "post worthy." That one with the double chin? Trash. That one from your "bad side." Trash. The one where you were trying to look sexy and ended up looking like you were just really drunk? Well, that goes on the refrigerator.

It goes without saying, that girls will post only pix where they are looking mighty hot. Because you are selling yourself, isn't that so? To girls, pretty packaging is a necessity. That is why girls have the makeup and the hair tools and the walk-in closet. Wait. Is that because WE like the pretty packaging? Or is it the guys who do? Hmm. Well, I don't know about you but I brush my hair for me. So the pretty picture? Well, if the best you have is that picture you took 10 years ago - when you weighed 105 - post it! A girl will do this. (Unless you are me, who can't take a good picture to save her life. So the above does not apply to me. Of course!)

Girls put a lot of thought and consideration in their photo posting. Because of this, they set the bar really high.

Now guys are a whole different breed. As a whole, guys don't care (or don't know any better) what picture they post. They don't put half as much thought into the lighting or the angle of the picture and whether it is a "flattering" picture or not. And they most certainly do not poll the guys: "Do you think this picture makes my nose look big?" "Should I go with full body shot or not?"How should I wear my hair?" "Should I smile or look serious?" "Should I wax?" "Would you date me?"

They most certainly do not do a photo shoot. As such, they set the bar at an even height.

One assumes that guys guys don't put any thought into the picture they post. If it is recent and they are in posession of it, they post it. They don't ask all their friends to send any and all pix they may have residing on their own digital camera. Nope, in the interest of machismo and modesty they will post any picture. It doesn't matter if they have food on their chin or if it was taken at such a close-up angle that their nose juts 3-dimensionally. These guys are rare though.

Is this really naive photo posting by the guys? Because I actually think guys do put thought into their photos - they just go about it differently than girls. Which makes them much more methodical and creative with the shots. While girls will have the pretty face shot, and maybe the one showing off their figure if they have it to flaunt, and maybe an action shot to appeal to the Sporty Spice crowd, and always the one where you are all made up in your bridesmaid dress. "Always a bridesmaid never a bride. Not woe is me. Drunk is me. Don't I clean up pretty?" There is a formula for the gal's photo posting.

The guys are all over the place. Because sometimes I just can't tell which category some of the guy's pictures fall under. The I-Don't-Care-And-Don't-Know-Which-Is-A-Good-Picture-Of-Me guy or the I-Did-A-Photo-Shoot guy? Let's look at some of these conundrums.

Props
Like a cellphone! What is this person trying to convey by posting a picture with a phone to the ear? Does someone really think when they are posting their profile, "You know, I'm going to use that picture of me talking on the phone - you remember the one - I'm holding the phone up to my ear?" If thought went into the photo-posting, this poster might be going for - I'm technologically-savvy (but of course), I have friends (who like to talk to me), and I'm a listener (because, see, I'm listening in the picture). Or, this might simply be a case of that-was-the-only-and-most-recent-picture-I-had. And what friend is snapping photos of phone conversations?

Animal Posing
Guys seriously like to show off the little doggie. Some seem to say, "I will give you one picture of me and four of Fido. There's Fido playing catch. There's Fido eating. There's Fido biting at my leg. And there is me laying on Fido. He really is man's best friend!" When really the girls just want to see YOU. We get it, you like your dog. Conversely, you will never catch a girl posting a picture of their cat. Or maybe you do. But those girls aren't getting dates.

Action Shots
Because guys are sporty! The action shots don't bother me so much. The guy with his full-blown scuba gear? Well it certainly says, "I'm sporty." You can't see his face and just about everybody looks good in a wet suit. These guys are definitely thinking about their photo placements. They want to convey a sport they are passionate about. OR they want to show you their hot little body without saying, "I have a hot body." Or post a gratuitious shirtless photo. They mean to tell you, "I'm a swimmer. Oops, hope you don't mind speedos. And, yes, it's natural! wink." This guy shows rather than tells. Words are meaningless.

Hot Girls
Guys seem to think that a hot girl by their side makes them more attractive. I personally know guys who like to have "hot friends that are girls" because, girls, don't you flock to the one guy in the bar who is WITH a girl. I actually do not understand what the guys are seriously thinking by posting pictures with girls. But there is a lot of them.

Scenery
These guys want to show you that they have been somewhere other than the Washington Monument. They have left the District and they travel! "I just went to Italy so here are 4 pix for your viewing pleasure of a place you have never been. Oh yeah, I'm not in any of them. I'm taking the photo, silly!" So you have no idea what the poster looks like, but you get to see some pretty countryside. You don't contact the boy, you contact your travel agent!

Sunglasses and Far away shots
This is iffy girls. It can go either way. I recently went out with one of those guys who either had pictures of him with sunglasses on, far away shots, and scenery. There were no close-ups, yet he was so gosh darn cool and that shot of him with the sunglasses was particular hot so I met him, all along fretting whether he was going to have a lazy eye or worse because his photos - I felt - were purposely hiding something. I went out on the Mystery Date Of The Guy With The Eyes. I had to text my friend on that date to verify his eye status. He had two working ones. He was hot in person. I think his was a case of this-is-the-most-recent-photos-I-have. Take it or leave it.

Red carpet poses
This is classic comedy for me. Seriously, I have seen quite a few photos of GUYS with the back to the camera looking back over the left shoulder. It's always the left shoulder. I can't figure out the motive on this one. Were they walking away from their friends and friend #1 shouted out, "Hey Joe!" and he turned at that moment? Candid camera indeed then.

There is not a category for the guy with the napkin tied on his head.

More picture scouring and analyzing to continue, I'm sure.

The 'It's All About Me' Edition

It's something like my bloggiversary. So happy birthday to virtual me. I decided to mark this special occassion with a little self-absorbed navel-gazing like a 100+ list of random things about me! Yeah! The birthday is all about the birthed anyway.

1. I have a facial scar running parallel with my bottom lip.
2. The funny thing is, I am usually pretty self-conscious as a whole but it doesn't even bother me and it never really did even when it was in its bright red stages - that coincided with my teenager years.
3. Not even when I point it out to someone and they say, "Oh yeah, I can see it now."
4. It's jagged.
5. I hate perfect looks.
6. I find the unusual sexy.
7. That is why I have a major thing for Willem Defoe.
8. I was born with a crooked foot because it was wrapped around the umbilical chord.
9. I had to wear a corrective shoe for this as a baby - while other babies were sporting "stylish" booties.
10. I'm sure I thought this.
11. Perhaps that is why I have a huge fetish for shoes to this day.
12. I also had a huge ear infection when I was a baby that scarred my inner ear.
13. I had to wear a big bandage for this.
14. What I'm saying is: I was one sad looking baby.
15. People probably thought I was retarded.
16. Especially because I never smiled as a baby.
17. And I would only follow my mom around and carry a blanket wherever I went.
18. What I am saying is: I was a dork.
19. My sister fed me jelly beans when I was 2 days old.
20. I sucked the sweetness out of them and never swallowed.
21. What I'm saying is: I didn't die.
22. I only blame her for my sweet tooth.
23. I would "save" my gum and stick it on my bedpost.
24. Apparently it was good to go the next morning.
25. What I'm saying is: I was gross.
26. I have very small boobs.
27. And I like them.
28. Because I don't like wearing bras in the summer.
29. Mostly because I like wearing barely-there tank tops.
30. What I'm saying is: I'm a bit of an exhibitionist.
31. When seriously I love "style."
32. Not to be confused with "I love clothes."
33. I often rue that I didn't try to go to NY and the Fashion Institute and make a go at a career in "style."
34. I own something like 100 pair of shoes.
35. I own stock in DSW Shoe Warehouse.
36. Not really.
37. I do own over 50 scarves.
38. And I have a lot of my grandma's costume jewelry that I still wear.
39. What I'm saying is: I'm an accessory hound.
40. Hence, my nickname, Boa.
41. I am a magazine junkie - subscribing to about 10.
42. Yes, Us Weekly is one of them.
43. I only read it for the pictures.
44. I think I am an old soul.
45. I love old people.
46. I used to write my grandma everyday when I was little.
47. To this day, I have a soft spot for old people.
48. I never talk to people on an airplane.
49. Except for old people.
50. They have the best stories to tell.
51. I whole-heartedly believe that with age comes wisdom.
52. I enjoy hanging out with my 92-old aunt.
53. That woman has style and grace.
54. We antique together.
55. I knit, cross-stitch replica samplers, and quilt.
56. What I'm saying is: I'm a Golden Girl at heart.
57. My maternal grandma's name was Gigi.
58. I love that name to this day.
59. Of course it is a nickname.
60. I never got to know her because she died when I was an infant.
61. My mom's family says I have her "spirit."
62. I struggle with "life after death", the concept of heaven, and souls.
63. What I'm saying is: I'm skeptical but not necessarily a non-believer.
64. That is a sad topic for me.
65. My first boyfriend's name was Kyle Lewis.
66. He had pretty white blond hair.
67. He used to steal his older sister's stuffed animals and give them to me.
68. I never gave them back.
69. What I'm saying is: I like when boys buy me stuff.
70. Not really.
71. I feel guilty.
72. I feel guilt on a daily basis.
73. I ponder on how I did this, who said this, how it was perceived, etc.
74. What I'm saying is: I'm a ruer.
75. I have some moles I should probably get checked out.
76. So I am going to in two weeks.
77. I think George Bush Sr. - as a father - should take his son out back and give him a spanking.
78. But I don't believe in physical brands of punishment.
79. So maybe just send him to his room with no dinner.
80. I hate all politicians - democrats and republicans.
81. Perhaps I am an anarchist.
82. Not really.
83. But I do know all the words to Anarchy in the U.K.
84. I think Nader is on to something with starting a new party - as a concept.
85. Democrats are losing their self-identity.
86. That makes me sad.
87. I am a bit of an OCD.
88. I partake in some repetitive habits.
89. I'll leave it at that.
90. It hasn't gotten in the way of my everyday life.
91. OK. I'll give you one thing.
92. Sometimes I have to walk on certain tiles in my kitchen.
93. I don't know what I will do when I get a new place and possibly don't have tiles.
94. Seriously.
95. But maybe I will be cured.
96. I do alphabetize my music collection.
97. My closet is color coordinated.
98. My underwear drawer is a mess.
99. My cat is really old right now.
100. I even call her "granny" now.
101. She has worn bandages, lost most of her teeth, and doesn't walk in a straight line.
102. She has her own brand of OCD.
103. She doesn't have a boyfriend.
104. She loves to sleep in shoes.
105: What I'm saying is: Sound vaguely familiar?!?
106. Except I have all my teeth.
107. Well, except the one that has a crown in the back.
108. I go to the dentist twice a year.
109. I floss regularly.
110. And I have opposable thumbs.
111. But I do like to purrr.

Unsettled

I have been busy. Are you surprised? Because I'm not all crazy blabbing about it. I take two turns (usually) the I'm-in-love-y'all or the woe-is-me one. Guess what? I'm neither right now. I wasn't kidding when I said I was tired. I have now reached the point of cynical. I just don't care anymore and there is not one guy I am excited about anymore. I go on a date now and just shrug my shoulders.

Case in point: I went out (finally) with The Flirt the other night. No surprise we had one of those rock star dates that pretty much go all night. He was much more attractive in person than his pictures led me to believe. He really has everything going for him. He's cute, stylish, professional (and likes his job), into music, plays the guitar, great sense of humor, entertaining, and there is a New Orleans connection. Historical posts indicate that I should be all ga-ga. But, I'm not. Will we go out again? He wants to and we have had many email conversations since the date but I really don't care if it doesn't come to fruition. In fact, I am not even sure if I do want a second date to crystallize.

I can't place this feeling I have. Is it cynicism I have reached? Or is it a matter of "chemistry?"

Mav and I have had numerous discussions on it. She even blogged about it. Did I really have "chemistry" with Johnny Jerkface (FKA Peter Pan)? Because I was really attracted to him. My friends and family reading right now are cringing because they can't stomach him. He wasn't really cute (and his actions now make him on par with Elephant Man). Was I content on "settling" for him? Was that it really?

I thought that me and the Indie Rock Attorney (IRA) had "chemistry." But apparently he sees otherwise because we have exchanged three emails since that date and we planned on going out this week sometime (at least I thought that was what he meant when he asked, "Would you like to go out one night next week?") but, alas, he was never heard from again. Was I simply just "crushing?"

Now there is The (Smart) Flirt. He is intrigueing. He is also a Pisces - which, to him, the world is a sea of fish - why settle for one. a Pisces asks. I still let him sing Air Supply to me. Yet, I'm not clamoring to see him again. Maybe because I know that when I do, he will swim back into the sea. Our witty email banter is kind of entertaining. He is a smart flirt indeed. Gosh, and thinking back on our date, we had plenty of "me too" moments. He loves me.

Then I just don't care what I say anymore. For example: There is another date next week - a first date with the Ancient Mariner. He first suggested talking on the phone. I emailed him back and told him I'd meet for a drink but I'm not a phone person and would prefer not to. He could very well be thinking, "What kind of social moron is she that she can't carry on a phone conversation with a stranger?" Um, I would respond with, "Read this." But he is fine with that. I think he was just trying to be polite. Some girls apparently prefer to talk on the phone first. How dare they.

And then there is the other guy who looked mildly decent. He likes Paul Frank and, y'all, I love the Paul Frank. But then he had to go and ruin any mild interest on my part with, quite possibly, one of my Top Three Questions I Hate To Hear From Prospective Dates. In no particular order:

1. Why aren't you married yet?
2. What do you like to do for fun?
3. What are you most passionate about?

He asked number 3. How do you answer that? First of all, read my fucking profile, you will find all your answer there. I have many passions. And if it is a passion, you better believe it is gong to be mentioned. Second, I don't believe in having one mother-of-all passion. That makes you closed-minded and possibly one-dimensional. It is like people that are only passionate about sports and they run the Iron Man and every marathon within a 600 mile radius and drink Creatine shakes and pump iron and flex muscles and east, sleep, breath sweat. That's an example. My passions run rampant. Again, I will tell the guy, "Read my profile again, dude."

Am I just skeptical now? Because I am now meeting The Smart Flirt for happy hour. Luckily Mav is chaperoning and under no circumstances am I allowed to go home with him. Because I don't want to go down that path. He's not my next boyfriend and I won't be the latest notch in his bedpost. I think happy hour banter and flirting is all I can stomach right now.

People To Hate: Arctic Chill Spreaders In The Office

This post is brought to you by the ice cube - it's not just for cooling your lemonade - that is, when you live your life AS an ice cube, essentially.

Admittedly, I get cold very easily. I keep a blanket on my couch because the sedentary life I come to know circa 7:30 pm, promises that I will get a little chilly. I also sleep with socks on most of the time - because the extremeties - not covered by my nighties - get cold. And shivering is not conducive to a blissful night of sleeping. People think the scarves I wear in the winter months are for fashion's sake - well, that is only partly right. Actually the scarves do serve the purpose of warming me from head to toe - by way of the neck.

Thus, it's a cold life I lead.

I wish I could "Linus my life around" and carry my couch blanket with me everywhere because I was on to something when I was 3 to probably around 5. I actually did carry a blanket with me wherever I went. Until the one day it was "lost." I still believe that an elaborate plan was hatched to confiscate the blanket in order to spare me the teasing by the other children in the first grade. Otherwise, I promise I would have never stopped carrying that thing around.

It is not that I mind the cold. Because I don't mind the chill when there is something I can do about it. Whether it be to wrap the blanket around, put a few extra layers on, or turn the heat on.

Heat! The socially-acceptable alternative to blanket-carrying. So, in order to maintain some semblance of professionalism in the office, I forego the "office blanket" and opt for the individual wall unit located right outside my office door to keep me all warm and toasty. Except! There is a mystery afoot. Because some little arctic chill spreader is going behind my back and switching my wall unit to cold air!

Do I have to remind you that it is February in DC. It does actually get its own brand of cold and, well, especially when the central a/c in the office is essentially on 365 days of the year. Y'all, the air conditioning is on in the winter! The cold draft in my office is most certainly NOT the drinking kind. "Bartender, I'll have a cold draft - and make it 32 ounces." No, it's the kind that makes you run for the blanket. (Oh, to be three again.)

So everyday I turn the wall unit to "hot" that - remember - is right outside my office and only affects, well, me and my next door office neighbor - who is never here but also feels the chill down to her core the way I do. We agree on the heating implement being necessary. On top of all this, I even supplement the heating unit with a pashmina - probably professional society's answer to blanket-carrying.

YET, everyday somebody is going behind me and turning the dial over to "cool" air.

Who is doing this?
When are they doing this?
Why are they doing this?

A mystery of Angela Lansbury proportion!

Rejection Junction, What's Your Function?

If there is one thing I have learned over the past year, it’s that you need thick skin when it comes to dating. No, I'm not claiming that is a profound and unique realization. But will you let me get away with it for just this one post? Because I think I am toughening up now. Why, I think I might be almost reptilian now. OK, the sun damage I endured last summer may have a little bit to do with it. But underneath the pebbled leather - not really, am creamy milky white now with freckles all over my chest - but that is from childhood actually - so underneath is calcium-fortified bones, a rock-hard soul, and an unpenetrable heart.

I joke! Because...not really. I am still the mush I was before. (And that is not just because "you are what you eat", in which my case, it would be mashed potatoes). BUT, I am learning to not have any expectations whatsoever. I now want to be caught off guard – pleasantly off-guard, that is. Prove me wrong Romeos, Don Juans, and Napoleans. I want a jack-in-the-box who will just "pop! up" and knock me on my ass. Jacks, why are you hiding in your boxes?

Ollie-ollie-oxen-free.

But really I am toughening up. Are you surprised? I'm reminded of this quote: "For a man to truly understand rejection, he must first be ignored by a cat." Well, I have faced rejection - by cats and other miscellany - and I continue to endure it on an almost daily basis. It's dating and it's inevitable.

Yes, today, we - the collective "I" - are riding the wave of rejection. Yes, re-jec-tion. Um, nobody likes it, right? Well, I have come to find the humor in it on one hand. And on the other, well, it is just not going to get me down anymore. I've hardened my ways. Let's take a closer look at the two scenarios.

First, I ask you Married and Single People, how would you feel to get rejected by short, squat bald guys? Yeah, the plural is intentional - short squat bald guySSSS. Five to be exact, if one were counting. (And if you are a guy, let's say the equivalent is 6'6" body builder she-man just for purposes of making an - admittedly - extreme comparison because I want the boys to participate in the dialogue here. So you can pick your own imagery even.) Would that kind of rejection hurt your ego? Would you crawl under a rock? Would you yank your profile down? Would you write a seething blog post about it - possibly "naming" said little bald man rejector? Here is what I do: I do pick myself up off the floor - because that is where my jaw is. Then I stitch up my sides - because of the fully belly laugh that ensued. My friend, that is when rejection takes a turn into....Funny Town. Clowns are not necessary.

(Footnote: I have nothing against short squat bald guys. Apparantly I have dated a few - bald ones that is but not short squat. Remember they are rejecting me. This blog - although not a dating blog! - is most definitely woe-is-me - sometimes at the expense of others. Sorry if you feel used and abused short squat bald guys. Please don't send me hate mail. You are already rejecting me. Stop the hurt.)

To explain - I am doing the unthinkable eharmony thing [shudders] and let me just say, all my friends were right, it sucks! Big time. That is $60 I could have spent on 60 baked potatoes (you know, if I was doing a "fast food" 99 cents commercial).

Here is why I hate eharmony. First, one has no control in the “matching” process. The system spits back "matches" based on some - they say - scientific and/or? psychological profile. When really, they just match up any two people who live in the same geographic area who call themself human because I think there is a box to check: human or alien. For the record, short squat bald guys are not alien - so I can be matched up with one. Second, the profiles have the most arbitrary of questions. For example: “three things you are grateful for”; the generic “what do you like to do”; or “what do you wish people knew about you but don’t”. You can tell so much about someone who is grateful for God, a roof over his head, and his family and friends. So much. Tell me more. Seriously, tell me more. Third, there are "stages of communication” and only after you pass go and get out of jail a couple times and buy Boardwalk for $60 - then - you can have “open communication” – i.e., emailing! Oh yeah, time for our own words and our own thoughts. Some people have them and then you can't be all "the computer made me say it." Proceed at your own risk. So at the end of the run around, I have lost patience and three weeks later I still don't know anything about the guy I am " electronically harmonizing" with. Which reminds me, I think I owe him an email now.

Which brings us around to tieing "rejection" "short squat bald guys" and "funny" into one point. If we were talking in secret code it might go like this: Ax SSBG lol. But if we are being literal: Y'all I have been rejected by about 5 short squat bald guys - ha ha ha. See, they send you a potential match - and it goes to both people - the SSBG and me. At this point, you can either: "Close them," which is basically telling them "no, thanks I never want to see your face again," because this option closes that person from communication forever, essentially you are sending them to the black hole of no-date-everland; or the proactive “start communication,” which starts you down the windy path of canned communication; or one can opt to put them "on hold”. Now, I don't know about you but to me, "closing" them seems like harsh and blatant....rejection. Thus, I opt for the “put on hold” option. It seems gentler - it kind of says, "I'm real busy right now, I'll call you later" even though you never intend on calling. Or do I have that backwards? Is the maybe-but-probably-not approach actually dishonest and subsequently more harsh than blatant rejection?

So while I am trying to let the boys down easily, the short squat baldies are beating me to the punch - they are "closing" all communication with me, right off the bat. And this is where I get very serious with you, dear reader. I am not joking about this. Five rejections by SSBGs in the past week! Sad, but funny. The funny kind of rejection that only a thick-skinned gal can handle, mind you.

So, I decided I’m pretty much a “match” girl. I won't lie, I would prefer "taken" girl, but I've got to troll the marketplace for that special guy. I'm cutting coupons, watching the specials, combing the aisles, and filling up my bonus card. (And that is pretty much what you feel like.) But on Match, you are in control of your matches, your words, your communication. The "rejection" that takes place here is you just don't email them back. (Except for ItalianSpice who said, "he won't give up" - that guy you got to spell out the words of r-e-j-e-c-t-i-o-n.) So I have to do some rejecting myself. I mentioned earlier I had 7 guys in the beginning, then I whittled it down to four within a few days, then this past week I whittled it down to three. Now after my two dates last week, I have whittled it down to two, because there is another date still pending with The Flirt. Then either of these two may have already decided to whittle me out themselves. You never know. Oh, whittle-dee-dee, whittle-dee-dah.

And this is the other side of the rejection coin. Because the thick skin comes in handy when it is no laughing matter - because it is some cutie who really should love you but actually might possibly be rejecting you. If I was God, he would love me. But he was almost too perfect. He is in the box. I want to be caught by surprise if he decides to "pop!" This laid-back there's-no-expectation approach comes only after I analyzed what his follow-up email on Monday said: "Thanks again for a great time.....Plan B was a stunning success....anyway, if you would be up for it, we should try and catch a show sometime soon.” That was no pop-up. To me, that says "you're cool, but there was no love connection - you're good for some live music." But he said "soon!" And he was feeling me out with "if you are up for it." But then again he mentioned only seeing some music and not the general idea of “I’d like to see you anywhere." Probably, gentle rejection. And that is okay. It's the thick skin that keeps me so level-headed and secure and detached from the situation. (Snark.)

But then there is the issue of the guy who asked to "reschedule" our date that was to take place tonight. I don't know he mentioned something about fighting a cold but still "really wants to meet me." Yeah? Well, I got thick skin, besides, I have my own sock drawer that needs re-arranging too. And now a loofah treatment to attend to. This thick skin is getting itchy.

But see? All this is the right kind of rejecting. There isn't any false hope. What we have here is a variation of the "put on hold" option. "You seem like a nice person but it's probably not going to happen" is what that is saying. Now I am trying to walk that fine line with my Sunday night date - The Sprite Drinker. I'd like to "put him on hold." Because you can't just ignore it and not do anything.

Because that is the worst type of rejection. I am talking about the kind of rejection that goes something like this: ---------. That was internet-speak for "silence" also known as "no words", "not facing the music", "avoidance", or "I am a pussy". Or to put it another way - fall off the face of the earth and avoid the person you want to break up with so that they have to file a missing persons report and feel shameful of the was-it-something-I-did kind. You get the picture.

This is the kind of rejection - the kind that doesn't even aknowledge or dignify the relationship to any - even small - degree of worth - no amount of thick skin can shield. Or, does that kind of rejection give you the thick skin? I remember it well - that sting of rejection - so much so that I wish him to feel that sting of rejection himself. To take from that relationship: I will be sure to not dish that brand of rejection myself. It is not a nice way to conduct your life.

So short squat baldies and cute fun dates - reject me all you want. Because you can't say I'm being ignored, right?

Snark.

I HATE rejection and all its variations.

Good Date Bad Date 1-2-3

A good date is when you show up and you are pleasantly surprised because he is gosh-darn cute - from his two hazel eyes down to his shoes. You are pleasantly surprised because in his pictures he had sunglasses on and you were almost certain you were going to be met with a cyclops.

A bad date is when you are slightly disappointed because he is wearing something too closely resembling a sweatshirt. Do you understand my dislike of the sweats?

A good date will ask you, “Can I get you a drink?” as his first question of the night.

A bad date will not ask you for a drink because he is too busy with his Sprite.

A good date is when you close the bar down - brooms are sweeping your feet and lights are brightening reminding you that it is the early morning hour of 1:30. Too soon.

A bad date lasts a little over an hour and consists of hamburgers and Sprite - 5 of them at that. You can never have too many! And you watch ice skating - which you hate - in the window's reflection.

A good date consists of lots of talk of indie rock and jazz and an impromptu run to a local jazz club when you discover your mutual fondness for jazz and you talk about the music and the dialogue of the instruments that play off, around, and against each other. Then you sing along to 'Tis Wonderful.

A bad date consists of forced conversation - like when you talk about what you eat for dinner most nights and how many ways you can make a potato.

A good date is complimentary, engaging, and courteous.

A bad date criticizes North Carolina after you tell him all your immediate family lives there, criticizes "Florida schools" after you tell him you went to one, and stereotypes attorneys in which case you had to tell him that 85% of your friends are attorneys.

A good date gives you a hug and kiss good night and tells you he'd like to see you again.

A bad date gives you a hug and kiss good night and tells you he'd like to see you again.

But you know what the real difference is between Good Date--Bad Date? The good date will not follow through.

Valentine Randomness

The Mood: A Playlist

This Valentine's Day I Wanna Be Adored [Stone Roses] because the last month just Makes No Sense At All [Husker Du]. But what really sucks about it is I have to drink Champagne From A Paper Cup [Death Cab] because the jackass has my sterling silver champagne bucket with four champagne glasses that I can't ask for because he won't even call me back. I want to get all You Oughta Know [Alanis Morissette] but instead there was only a Tear Stained Letter [Johnny Cash] that was never sent because really, it's Just Another Day [Oingo Boingo]. And frankly, The Future Is So Bright I Got To Wear Shades [Timbuk 3].

The Past: My Life

My daddy's name was Valent. My grandma would actually say that it was really Valentine but my dad never admitted to that. And like our 'ole Saint - that some love and some curse because you have it or you don't - my Daddy Valentine was full of the love. I have it.

The Hope: Eternal, I Hope

It's called dating and I am back baby. You know I won't be able to keep my mouth shut about it. But I promise that I will not use anything like "love of my life" "my favorite guy ever" or "boyfriend" - which I now hate as much as "fiance". Yuk.

A Pop Culture Reference: Appropriate Cheesy Optimism

I ch-ch-choose....ME. ;)

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all!

A PSA And A Subliminal Message

Do not buy knock-off purses anymore.

Counterfeit fashion seems passable on first glance, but closer inspection reveals misspelled logos, inferior craftsmanship, puckered seams, low quality leather, large, uneven stitching, and flimsy hardware. Next time you see a purse posing as the real thing, inspect it more closely. And if you see a “Made in Taiwan” tag, know it is not authentic.

Besides, if the price is right and you can buy it off the trunk of a car, then it IS too good to be true. Why settle for less than an original?

The Blacklist

This will be my last post about the relationship gone bad starring Peter Pan, moonlighting as Johnny Jerkface, as the villian. I hear he is up for an Oscar this year for his role which - with his great acting ability - had his audience fooled. Villian posing as superhero gets them all the time. I am sure I have seen a Batman episode like that.

In the end, the outcome is "Player." I was deceived and he certainly played me. Because he has never called me to break up with me so I don't know why or what. It is the weirdest relationship-breakup I have ever encountered. It rocked my world for a couple weeks but now I can do nothing but laugh about it. I would have taken anything if even an email - or post-it note a la Berger (Sex and the City) that said, "Sorry. Can't do this." But he just dropped off the face of the earth never to be seen or heard from again. [It's funny because the Berger storyline is going on in the reruns right now and I can't help but see the similarities in that relationship. In hindsight.]

It's funny how you can identify all the negative aspects of a relationship when it is over. But when you are in it, you overlook those things. I have a friend who once dated a guy who punched a wall. She made excuses for it at the time. I don't know him so I can't pass judgment but one MIGHT think, um, anger issues. My sister dated one of those Wall Punchers and I can most definitely assure you - MAJOR anger issues. Now Johnny Jerkface wasn't a wall puncher, but I can assure you I found plenty other faults when I stepped outside of starry-eyed girl box.

What I Won't Fall For Next Time

I hereby declare not to fall for someone who--

--wears white elastic-ankled sweatpants.

--says "kiddie doodles" instead of "kids" each and every time.

--will not perform oral sex on me.

--has me meet his parents after only knowing him three weeks and dismissing it as "no big deal" when it should be a big deal.

--constantly calls me "gorgeous" "hot stuff" "hottie" or "crouton" - or by my last name.

--tells me he knew I was "the one" after our first date.

--prefers his drinks pink.

--wears cravats for driving his British sports car around town.

--wears an orange ski parka. Orange.

--picks me up at the airport and does not get out to help me put my luggage in the back.

--paws me on our third date in front of his co-workers.

--won't let me pull the table closer to me because it will be "too far from him then."

--disregards my desire to show up at MY friend's holiday party on time because it is "too early, it's better to be fashionably late" - when it is my good friend, I am expected to show up early, and if I don't show up at that time I will miss seeing my pregnant friend - and therefore makes me arrive 2 hours and 45 minutes later than when I wanted to.

--doesn't walk me to my car the first time I go over to his house.

--says "fun event" as in: "Let's talk later and coordinate for our 'fun event'."

--hates his job or is very unhappy in his job situation.

--has conflict with management in every professional job he has held.

--plans many dates for the first two months of dating and then stops planning and then wants to stay in all the time and then when I ask why, says that he wanted to see how I reacted to that. Huh?

--tells me he can be a jerk and a player. (Apparently looks have nothing to do with it.) If someone is saying this, apparently there is some truth in it. Foreshadowing.

--has negative things to say about his exes and thinks that some of them are crazy and are prone to stalking.

--thinks all his girl friends have crushes on him.

--paints his kitchen purple and has red velvet couches. (I can't tell you the hatred I have for these two decorating schemes.)

--doesn't like when I put a couch pillow on the floor.

--doesn't understand the importance of cool sunglasses. Guys, sunglasses are just as crucial as the shoes. The right pair of shades are everything.

--would wear satin pajamas and lets his sister borrow them.

--strokes his mom's hair or has to touch everyone's hair. Hair fetish?

--went a year at any point in his life not talking to his parents.

--thinks he is such a great cook, but doesn't even know how to slice an onion. I can't cook but I can slice a mean onion.

--can not make good waffles or never makes me blueberry pancakes. I can't settle for less.

--doesn't let me buy another bottle of champagne for New Year's Eve because he thinks one bottle is enough. Sure it was a magnum but isn't it better to be safe than sorry, err on the side of more?

--doesn't want to drink with me on New Year's Eve.

--would rather play video games all night long on New Year's Eve.

--does not feel the need to watch the ball drop and smooch at midnight.

--wants to talk about marriage, kids, cohabitation, and the future within the first month of dating.

--constantly talks to his friends about me, how wonderful I am, etc. - I know this because I hear him on the phone - yet never introduces me to them.

--tells me on our first date about an ex-girlfriend who made out with his sister.

--has parents that buy him a t-shirt that says, "Looking to score."

--tells me within a few weeks of knowing him how much his parents are worth.

--is BORING and perfunctory in bed, no matter if he uses it well. I like variety and fun.

--makes me - in his selfish ways - feel unsexy. Because...I am sexy!

--doesn't take an interest in "me" as a person but instead "me" as it relates to him. This is hard to explain but a very, very general example is when someone asks you when your birthday is, you ask the same thing back. If you care.

--never uses the $200 wallet you bought him for Christmas because he is afraid to use it - and won't return it and get the Ferragamo shoes he really wants when you absolutely insist he does this - so he ends up wasting your money and hurting your feelings.

--does not have the decency or maturity to break up with someone whom you spent the better part of four months - who spent Christmas with you - when you want out for whatever reason.

--takes the "I will not call her" approach. Or the "I won't even call her back" approach.

The End.

I'm now closing the book on that chapter unless of course there is some update. Some poetic justice which I do dream about. But I don't count on it....

So I'm back on match trolling for another round of dating misery. Within my first 30 minutes I got an email from someone calling himself italianspice. Oh boy, I can hardly wait.

The Friday Night Lineup At The Convenience Store

I have to start dating all over again. And, um, quite frankly, DC is hard. On one hand are the Hill people - which, I am so not into. And never mind that DC is so transient, people come and go. And everyone is getting younger and younger because the people my age? Married.

Friday night I had drinks with my friend Shamrock and a co-worker of hers. I learned that this girl is 32 and going through a divorce. (I guess it could always be worse.) So we started trolling the crowd for the "cuties." Um, there were none. Oh yeah, there is one, but look at that, he's with a girl. Then there was one guy whom we were debating his age. I was sure he wasn't a day past 29 and then when I saw his buddies I didn't think he was a day past 25. So what does the Divorcee do? She goes up to the guy. Kudos to her but when she came back after exchanging business cards with the "boy" I learn of her "line" which, unbeknownst to me, involved me.

"Oh, I told him that you thought he was cute."

Oh. Whatever. I have no energy. If she needs to use me to get her confidence up to speak to the boys, go right ahead. Because I am not talking to them.

After drinks, I decided to stop by the little market by my house. I love the little guy at the market because he gives you chocolate with your purchase. Sometimes it is the kind with hazelnuts in it and I don't like nuts at all. One time, however, I was so desperate for the chocolate, I picked out the little teeny, tiny hazelnuts. But when I am lucky he passes out a Lindt truffle. I loooove the Lindt truffle. I was taking a gamble that he would treat me right that night.

Do you need the evidence of how hard it is to date in DC. I present to you the Friday Night Lineup At The Convence Store. A sum total of three decent-looking girls lined up at the cash register.

Girl #1: Buying a pack of smokes and a pack of gum.
Girl #2: Buying a bag of potato chips and a pint of Ben & Jerrys.
Girl #3 AKA ME: Buying a bottle of wine.

And we each got a little Lindt chocolate to complete our own pity parties. We should have convened on my balcony, watched the drunks walk to the bars, and toast our truffles.

These are the gals I would rather be hanging out with. Instead I had to see my Downer Friend - I promised her lunch and shopping on Saturday. She feels kindred now that I have been dumped in a BIG WAY and this is her conversation with me: "What is wrong with us? I tell ya', these guys are all the same. It'll happen for us some day. What are we doing wrong? Did we sleep with them too soon?"

I hear this over and over and over. Groundhog day, indeed.

Really there is no "we" in this equation. We have two totally different circumstances. But since we both just happen to be single at the same time she uses this as an excuse to call me THREE TIMES A DAY to have the same conversation because all she can do is dwell on it. Atleast the guy whom she was casually dating actually BROKE UP WITH HER. That is what my BOYFRIEND should have done. Broke up with me and not just ignored my phone call to avoid the BREAK UP. I can't keep having this conversation with her. Our lives are so, so different. She thinks people who love Vegas have gambling problems and people who drink an occassional bottle of wine are alcoholics. She has always been my "small dose friend."

Yet I can't "break up" with her. She means well. So I just act like I am not bothered in the least by what has happened and I try to be the strong one so she will get over this guy. She is amazed at my resiliency. Little does she know that I am not really. This guy actually got me in a big way. Peter Pan NEVER called on the date that HE set as the END to THE BREAK. And guess what? That Lindt truffle is still sitting in the bottom of my purse. I have NO desire for the chocolate. Something IS wrong with me....

On Dating, Ulcers, And Friends Gone Bad

I have been on edge for two weeks now. When I agreed to the "break" my momma told me that I would be sorry because I would be a ball of nerves. Dear Momma's always right.

There is a pit in my stomach right now.

I don't think it would have been so hard for me if I had not seen him last week. When I agreed to the "break" I thought we would not see each other, we would miss each other, and reclaim our groove. Every which way I wrap my mind around this I still think we had it. In spite of the elastic-ankled sweat pants. (Like my fashion-conscious brother asked, "You mean like sweatshirt sweatpants?" "Yes.") I would - will - be so much better if even I hear, "Thanks but no thanks. I'm moving on to other pastures." I can accept that and then get my mind to the point of NOT WORTH IT. I will never fret over someone who is not fretting over me.

But I am in limbo. So now that my stomach is somersaulting and the time is closing in, I wonder if he is even going to heed our Feb. 5th date and call or just blow it off. Well, of course if he blows it off, there is my answer. THAT move would certainly get my head around NOT WORTH IT. THAT move would be shit-E. I should be giving him more credit, but frankly his behavior as of late is not the same of the guy I spent every weekend since Sept. 24th with, including Christmas. So I am doubting. My stomach flipping is synchronized to my aching head that can't think about ANYTHING ELSE.

However, the waiting does not come without some positives. I lost seven pounds which I probably just put back on with lunch today. (Chicken and orzo, a big hunk of buttery bread, and the BEST chocolate chip cookie ever from the greek deli.) I am not going out - on Friday night - I know! I am going to the gym instead. Crazy? I think not. Why not reclaim the reins of slender and sinewy? [Edited to add: Shamrock called, I am meeting her for drinks....sinewy will come some other day.]

But on the other hand I am getting the stomach pains that my sister, mom, and I succumb to and which my mom refers to as the "Bennett stomach." That may or may not have something to do with some curse placed on three generations of the Bennett (my mom's) family. Stomach ailments are apparently a family tradition. My grandma died of stomach cancer. Eeriely. So I am never without my ginger pills, which I am popping religiously these days.

Fucking boy. Because I hate that. My feminist sensibilities hate that: Giving some guy your well-being. However, I will gladly give him the weight. A pound for his thoughtlessness, a pound for his selfishness, a pound for his sweatpants.

And then on top of my mental state pinged with anger alternating with sorrow, I have this friend who is being a drain. Let me just say that this girl is a sweatheart, very beautiful, and wants nothing more in the world than to be a mom. She is 38. She is also very small-town (meaning: she never leaves small-town - she lives in a suburb of DC and will not come into the "city." "DC is dangerous.") So she latches on to any good looking guy who gives her the time of day. I have seen her do this over the past 12 years I have known her. And when I say latch on, she latches on with all her being and doesn't let go. I am afraid she sends the guys running to the hills. Because I see her do it with me. For example, she knows I hate the phone, yet she will call me 3 times a day, albeit when there is no boyfriend - with absolutely NOTHING NEW to say. She has no hobbies - she doesn't read, she doesn't watch any TV. (One time she called and I told her I was watching the Bachelor and she asked what that was. Are you kidding? First of all, do not disturb me during the Bachelor (or Family Guy, The Office, or Weeds - and hopefully, Love Monkey) and, what rock is she living under? And, trust me, it is not like she is pondering physics or world peace. She once asked me what it meant to be "conservative" politically. And which was further, Las Vegas or California. See?) So there is nothing else to talk about. Well, lo and behold, she just got "turned away" by this guy who - frankly was sketchy from day one. I wouldn't be surprised if there were drugs and a wife involved. No, it's not a TV show. So now she is turning to me. Three times a day. And I don't have the energy for her. She will not let this guy go. He last told her that he thinks they are on different emotional levels and that he is still hung up on an ex-girlfriend so he was canceling their date for that night. She still doesn't get that. She thinks she just said something wrong so she keeps calling him and emailing him and he ignores her calls. I cringe at the crazy she is teetering on.

But I get the three times a day phone call that goes like this each and every time: "Hi. What are you doing? You busy? Do you have a lot of work? Anything new? I still have not heard from him. Should I call him again?"

So even though my stomach is a ball of nerves, my head aches, my heart pounds, and all I can think about is HIM, atleast HE doesn't know it. It's dignity and I plan to keep it.

A Different Kind Of Bowling League

Gangs are cool. Well, not the Crypts and Bloods kind of gangs where Biggies and Tupacs are getting killed (and subsequently coming out with movies and videos STILL - conspiracy? I'm looking at you P Diddly Dink) and 50 is getting shot at 50 times and the 6th grade recruits are holding a gun in one hand and holding up their pants by the other. For those playing along at home - NOT cool. I am actually talking about a more innocent - harmless - type of gang. The kind you start with your friends based on one common denominator or such because you don't start the club and then make a common denominator.

For example, I was in a gang - or club - in high school. We were cooler than the Pink Ladies. It started with a uniform of the black bra. See, I was sitting around at a party (incidently at my house, hi mom) with my friends Katie and Marlene and one of the guys there pointed to us and said something like, "Y'all are so punk rock with your black bra straps showing." Apparently, we all just happened to have our black bras on and our shirts just happened to be falling down our shoulders and we were simultaneously advertising black bra straps. One guy thought it was hot. And so from that point forward we began to call ourselves the Good Girl Club. Our "secret" handshake was a yank of your shirt to reveal your black bra strap. Coo. And Katie even bought us these little ceramic dolls and painted a black bra strap on each girl's right shoulder. Our "good girl" symbol. Sigh. The Good Girl Club had a lot of good clean fun. I must subconsciously still yearn for those days because I occassionally will flash a black - or red! - bra strap. At work. It can't be helped. My thinking is that we are probably a really big club in actuality. I bet there are a lot of girls out there who can't keep the bra strap covered.

Now recently, Mav and I dubbed a new club that actually does not even count us as members. We needed a club to collect all the wrongdoers in relationships. It is equivalent to the Go-Stand-In-The-Corner Club for-you-have-been-a-bad-boy-so-you-have-been-tagged. Because shouldn't guys come with some kind of warning like: Contents are not really what they seem. Will lose shape. Contents may shift in transit. Or, It's all about me (when really, come on here, it is all about ME). They put a jail out on a island, can't we do the same for those who have "done us wrong"? So a "club" given a gimmick and that gimmick is.....bowling.

Before I get to the rules of the club, the card carrying (i.e., founding) members, and their uniform and props let me just say that bowling is used as metaphor. Because, uh, bowling is fun of course! Any night with pitchers of beer, funky shoes, and sticking your ass out for ogling, is frankly my kind of night. And when it is 80's night on the loudspeakers - even better. So I'm not dissing the "sport" per se. Seriously, Peter Pan was going to take me to "opening night" at the new groovy "alley" that opened up in Gallery Place. He got "special" tickets but then had to bail because, um, "work", of course. And then he bailed out of the relationship. So it seems. [Special note: Here is where I should point out - or warn you - because I am well aware of what is happening here - for the next month I will tie Peter Pan into every conversation, nostalgically. "Going to brush my teeth." "Peter Pan brushes his teeth!" "I just got my toes painted." "That's funny, Peter Pan has 10 toes!" "Where should we eat?" "Peter Pan and I ate dinner at a restaurant once....." Right? Haven't we all done this? Or is that just me? Well, strap yourself in.]

So how did bowling as metaphor come about, you may wonder?

Mav: I haven't heard from Steve-O, The Delicate Flower yet.
Me: Pshaw. He and Peter Pan should get together and go bowling.

And, no surprise there, Mav got it. I have tried to use it on people before and nobody ever got it. So we shared a laugh at the concept. I guess it is like saying they should both go to hell. In all honesty, the phrase might come from a movie and somebody might clear that up here. Breakfast Club perhaps? I don't remember, but Marlene - of the Good Girl Club fame - and I used to use that phrase in high school and we were always quoting Duckie from Pretty in Pink ALL THE TIME. I only watched that movie 100 times. "I'm off like a dirty shirt." "Do I offend?" "I'm not going to ride my bike by your house anymore!" (I could actually use that one, sad to say.)

But Mav and I are taking the phrase a step further and modeling a little make believe world for the losers who have crossed our path. It's innocent - because I'd like to do the voodoo because I believe in black magic, you know, stick a pin in his heart - but instead we are sending them to....the bowling alley. In case you are wondering, "God, you girls have NOTHING better to do than concoct these make believe clubs for losers who don't even deserve your time of worrying. And mentally visualizing props and uniforms? Geesh." Well, you might be right. For me, at least. Mav is powerful - she sits in depositions and "objects" every 15 minutes - just to stay in the game, on her toes...awake. So she might be "bored" too in actuality. But really I am just blowing a half hour long email exchange into a STORY. So, yes, THIS keeps me busy. Hey, I'm not the bowler....

Mav: Any word?
Me: Nope. Hilarious. Bowler!
Mav: Yes, he should quit his job and go on the professional circuit.
Me: When are you seeing Steve-O, The Delicate Flower, The Delicate Flower, Steve-O?
Mav: I suggested sat but he hasn't gotten back to me yet.
Me: He might have a bowling tournament. Don't be surprised.
Mav: True. I didn't even think of that. I just hate bowling.
Me: Greengenes is bowling at Ballroom this Saturday night...I wonder if Peter Pan is going....
Mav: I wonder if he will bring the ugly girl who carries his ball.
Me: He's got a hot pink ball.
Mav: I'm sure his initials are carved in it as well. "PP" in italics of course.
Me: And he keeps throwing gutter balls.
Mav: Wearing a pink satin jacket with the words "I bust mine to break yours"

Thus, a league was born! If you would like to nominate someone, send your request to bowler_at_Imaloserbaby.com. The first 10 people will get a pink satin jacket with their initials, of course.

Join "The Club"

I am wondering why the car - a rusted 1980's Cutlass Supreme - parked in the secured garage of my apartment building - which a friend likes to refer to as the Ritz Carlton (I even have a concierge at my beck and call) - amidst all the Range Rovers, BMWs, Infinitis and Mercedes (and even the Volvo) - in the middle of Yuppyville (crime is so DC) - locks up the steering wheel every night with The Club. The Club. I am sure they rest much easier knowing their car is not going to get stolen. That's nice.

I remember one time going on a date with a Clubber. I shamefully admit to being a little turned off. Am probably a snob like that. Sniff. A gazillion failed dates later, I wonder: Was HE the one?

The fucking one? Whatever the fuck that means. (I should point out that I swear when I am angry, so you have been warned. Just nod your head and agree with me. Oh, and don't get in my way.)

See, it was probably about seven-eight years ago when I was leaving the long hours and stressful days of a law firm and heading to an accounting firm to become the law librarian there. Oh, and they were going to double my salary and make me work much less. So I am capable of some smart decisions. (A positive! I might stop swearing now.) So when I was leaving the old job, one of the new first year associates asked me out. I am not sure I was surprised he asked. He was always coming 'round to the library and checking out the books. All of a sudden the books weren't going to be there anymore so then he felt perfectly justified in asking me out then because he never would have if I still worked there - you know, fraternizing with the help or something like that.

On our first date, I learned that he may be a straight-laced attorney by day, but by night he was a rock star. Literally, he was in a local band - played bass guitar and sang. I admittedly never heard of them so he gave me a CD of their music and I was quite impressed. So we hit it off. Because what is not to like about that package? An artist, but not a starving one which - in my best-of-both-worlds mind - was a turn-on. Until.....

Date number two and he picked me up and we drove out to Annapolis - for some reason. Details are fuzzy however, the only thing I do remember is him pulliing into a garage in downtown Annapolis - finding a nice spot to fit his little Escort and, um, pulling out The Club. You know, to lock up the Escort, of course.

Why did this bother me so? Because our next date he invited me over to his house and he cooked for me and he bought this Charlie Parker CD for me and he did some other sweet thoughful things for me. I still don't think I ever kissed the guy. I just could not get into him. What was wrong with me? He was in hot pursuit, we had lots in common, he certainly wasn't bad looking. Similar ingredients to my Peter Pan connection. But Rock Star I couldn't get into. After that date, I called it off and said we were better friends. Of course, I never heard from him again.

So I just googled him - because I wonder if HIS was the boat I missed out on because, like I said, MY JUDGEMENT CAN'T BE TRUSTED. And I am digging deep into the karmic love destiny these days. Apparently, he left DC, hung up the suit and tie, and moved to San Francisco to become a full-time rock star. I thought about linking to him right here, and maybe he'd find his way back here, but, no, that isn't what I really want. I am just reassessing my mistakes and wrong turns in the wake of Relationship-What-The-Hell-Just-Happened. I thought I was finally falling for the "nice guy" - you know, growing up - when really he was just every other - cliched - non-committal type that I am attracted to - subconsciously, albeit. Peter Pan indeed. I should have heeded the warnings when his mom gave him that nickname.

I don't know if anyone noticed but I had a post up about last Thursday night and running into him and his ignoring me and then our little Dance Showdown. But I took it down because - yuk - I just didn't like it. It bugged me, seeing it on the screen, and even reading it. And, um, who directed Star Wars? I should totally fact check before I post. I need an editor. I plan on making my bloggiversary post - in March? - about that very thing. Because writer, I am not. See? I write as if I am talking to my friend, not something that somebody - who is not in my head - has to read. And then the tangents are just the different "me's" having a party. They drink heavily. While I will only have one glass of red wine tonight. Nope. Fucking Bush is on - make that two glasses.

Anyway, let's bring it back to "the club." As metaphor! It could be the Club of jilted and wronged women - the "woe is me" bandwagon - woman who love too much - shrieking harpies - a "what's wrong with me" club. Blah-di-blah-blah-blah it's him, everyone says. Yes. I know that. And that's the point. I am usually a pretty good judge of character. I have very good Dick-Jackass-Fucking Bowler Radar. I just feel duped by him - like he mis-represented himself in some way. Reeled me in. Hook. Link. And sink, she did. I have to admit it - I really, really liked this guy. (In case, NOBODY has been paying attention.) Not only did I tell all my friends, "Shriek! He's "the one!" But I also told my dentist, my gynecologist, and my vet. I even took a walk down Girly Avenue and started visualizing a wedding - and how I was going to start saving for it. People - I NEVER do that. I am usually pretty private. And I am also usually very cautious - in every aspect of my life. My friends don't even let me drive because I am so cautious. I inspect my food - each bite - before eating it. (That's how come I didn't eat that roach that was in the cafeteria jello that one time in high school.) I don't dive into the deep end - I dip my toes first.

YET, I just let myself be in this relationship - I submitted willfully and whole-heartedly. So now, I am locking up - with The Club of course! Ain't nobody "taking" me again.

God Works In Mysterious Ways (And She Moves In Mysterious Ways)

Last Thursday night, I was just minding my own business, squeezing onto an over-packed metro train, when I ran into a friend. She ended up dragging my ass out to a bar to see a band - a band from the "beach house years." So I thought that this might be just the thing I need - a little nostalgic shakedown of happier times because - if you have been reading along - January kind of sucks for me right now. I thought this night had happy potential.

"Oh God, take me to that happy place!"

So God looked down on my wishes and said, "Well I do have something in store, you won't be happy about it, but in the long run you will be in a happy place. Know that this is for you. Put on some tight jeans, put some silk mist in your hair and some black eyeliner, and go to that bar. Trust me." Then the basket of money was pushed under my nose and I knew I had to ante up my $5 charitable contribution - for the Lord speaketh (or cometh).

So what did before my eyes I see? But a tool in the likeness of Peter Pan, of Break-Back in 2 weeks!-Mountain fame. And so the bizarre story of Boy Who Was In Hot Pursuit Of Me nosedives - out of control - into Boy Who Is Purposely Fucking With My Heart. Because this boy was being quite friendly with some ugly girl with a big nose and 3 inches on him and a bad dye job - if I must be frank. I mean we look nothing alike - style or appearance-wise. But the worst part of all this? He KNEW I was there, we exchanged a very brief "hi" earlier and then he put on the show for me.

Cheeseball gropes The Nose. Tickets are NOT going fast. Pretty people sell pictures and they couldn't sell out the theater even if Francis Ford C. was directing. On second thought, they might be good extras in the next Star Wars. Yoda, anyone?

But I ask: For the love of God - WHY????

And this is when God graced me with consideration again. He listens to prayers because I was on the brink of either: (a) taking a turn to Crazy Town and confronting him (and her) and subsequently Lorena Bobbitting him right on the spot ("Yeah, go try hanging out in your white sweat pants now!"), or (b) cry, cry, cry, crying.

But God answered the prayers and decided to spare me Embarrassment. For that, I am grateful so I put an extra $5 in the money basket. Because at that very moment he sent in a savior in the form of - get this - a Cute Boy! I told Cute Boy the deal, expecting Cute Boy to run for the hills but he hung out with me and I did my own dirty dancing with the boy.

So I put on my own little show. Boa Gets Her Ass Grabbed. Private and limited engagement.

And I am all of 12 now.

At the end of the Dance Showdown I let the Boy With No Name walk me home and - in a possessed state - I invited him up for water. Isn't that an enticing offer? "Would you like to come up for a nice glass of water. I've got a Brita pitcher!" And he wanted water. Perhaps he thought he was getting more. It was 2 o'clock in the morning at that point. I did what any girl would do in that situation - I made out with him. I still was possessed - the visions of the night were haunting me. And first I kissed him and I thought, "Ooo, this is nice." And then no, not such much. He kept doing this downward jab with his tongue. So then I was bored and I was sad and the weight of all that happened that night just hit me. I sent him off and I laid in bed for the next four hours in and out of sleep with the weirdest dreams. Peter Pan making out with The Nose. Peter Pan moving on. Peter Pan being mean. Peter Pan as a totally different person. A wolf in sheep's clothing?

Sad. Sad. Sad.

But I gave the Boy With No Name my phone number. I totally see what is going to happen. This guy is going to be all over me because he knows that I am not interested in HIM - and since he is 25 I will NEVER date him anyway. But he just might be my distraction for the time being to get over Peter Pan.

I wonder if he is going to keep to our Feb. 5th date now...because by the looks of Thursday night he didn't appear to be giving our relationship any thought. I was caught off guard running into him in the first place and I snubbed his advance to hug me and kiss me. I was confused. But that is because we never discussed the paramaters of the "break" especially if we were to run into each other. And I have never been able to think on my toes.

Therefore if he is going to blow me - blow the whole thing off - then God, I have one more wish. Can you put Idiot Boyfriend in those white sweat pants again for my viewing pleasure? It helps as a model for the ugly picture that is being painted.

Relationship Rehab

"Let's take a break," Rachel said to Ross.

That's a TV show!! I am meant to be in the audience - that "break" in "Must See" TV Land should only be for my entertainment purposes! I can even hear the canned roar of the audience laughing at the punchline, "We were on a break!" Can I go back to observing this scene? Because I should not have to act this part out in real life. I am not laughing.

Therefore when art imitates life - your life - you do need a break - a break from your life. So I stayed home from work Monday and Tuesday to throw myself a pity party - with no liquor involved because that didn't go over so well on Saturday. You learn that the hard way when your guy friend gives you a hard time about why you didn't show up to happy hour on Friday and you don't want to tell him the real reason why you didn't go out that night - that you ditched your friends to have a heart-to-heart with Peter Pan because things are not going so well - apparently - that is the Relationship, According to Him. And you don't want to tell him for the simple fact that he is best friends with Yukkell, the soon to be Ex-Ex. After all, there is a new opening for "Ex" quite possibly. SO to avoid honesty, I joined him and the rest of the guys at a bar at 1 pm on a Saturday afternoon because my other options are (1) shopping - but I have given that up for the time being on account of my little self-imposed spending moratorium (even though I need a $110 perfume!); (2) Mav - who is being all studious and disciplined right now, as she should be, except I don't know why that girl is considering moving to Florida; or (3) my Anthony Kiedis autobiography that I had been reading, which - spoiler alert! - um, he was a BIG FAT junkie - bet you didn't know that. It's not like rock stars DO that kind of thing. I mean, that would be so cliche or not. So I decided afternoon drinking it is!

So I drank all afternoon and talked and laughed too. And then a few of us went to the mexican restaurant to meet up with another friend and then you know what happens at the mexican restaurant? You partake in the poison known as The Swirl - which are just TROUBLE (and I should be saying "is trouble" as in one swirl, but no, there were multiple swirls so they are all in on this) . So given the backdrop I am giving you here - the props that affect any scene - you might be able to guess how this is going to play out - you know, given the current emotional state of someone on a "break." Because you know when it has been emotionally TOO MUCH and you end up crying your eyes out when you THINK you have lost your phone and at that moment you really believe that the world is ending (and your phone is right there the whole time) - which you would realize if you allowed Rational Thought any place in your head right now. But you have pushed it aside for now. So at this time - Day 1 of "The Break!" - losing your phone seemed like the most traumatic thing to happen to you so you start CRYING. Body shiver crying. And your sweet, sweet guy friend - a person who you didn't want to know about your little "relationship hiatus" - for various reasons again - this friend holds you for about a good 20 minutes while you let it out. You let the last year out, I guess. I carried on like a blubbering crybaby.

Saturday Afternoon Relationship Avoidance became Saturday Night Relationship Confessional.

Thus Monday and Tuesday (and Sunday for that matter too) were when I held my non-alcoholic pity party. I needed to think long and hard about what I want. Is he all that and a bag of chips? My most inquiring mind wants to know! I DID think so but perhaps he is flawed in the way he handles the stresses in his life - do I really want someone who is going to SHUT THE WORLD OUT and not deal?

So yesterday I looked to the TV for some Relationship Guidance. Ross and Rachel eventually got back together. Right? So I thought it a sign when I saw this show on Style called, Relationship Rehab. Right up my alley! I need some rehabilitating. Some clarity. Except this show is about people who have been dumped by jerks, people not worthy. They dodged the bullet. Now let me just say that I can look back at every one of my relationships and KNOW that I dodged the bullet. And I really knew it then - that is why it was easy for me not to wallow and accept the breakup. I get back on my feet pretty easily. So this show gets these girls a new zest for life, because YOU ARE BETTER OFF. And that is where I got really sad. I seriously thought him to be the "one" and I have NEVER thought that about anyone before. I have loved and I have been loved. Sometimes I have been the Dumper, sometimes the Dumpee. But Peter Pan and I had this whirlwind three month romance. We were having fun! And then all this dropped off this past month - about the time he started to get wrapped up in work - 11 hour days + all weekend. And he kind of just checked out. And I NEVER questioned him. I let him do his thing.

But it all came out last week when he started projecting all that negativity into our relationship and questioning whether we have a "spark" (I hate words like "connection", "chemistry", or "spark" when used in the context of a relationship, BY THE WAY); our "long term compatability" (can you tell he is the Analytical One and I am the Flakey One - so he questions that); and why he is not feeling like this is the "honeymoon phase" anymore (is there a timeframe on this stuff?). I attributed this to: No duh! Your life sucks right now! I could see if I was nagging him about more US time - that might push someone away but I have been the ever patient, supportive, non-confrontational, fun-spirited girlfriend riding this bumpy road out. Unbitterly too, I might add. Never mind that a week before this discussion to "break" took place he was telling me how he has screwed relationships up in the past with the "work thing" and how he doesn't want to screw it up with me. And then he probably snapped at me - which is his whole point.

So a break was instituted - after I suggestd a "break up" because I am not going to sit here and beg someone to like me or convince them of anything. Dude, you have got to want to be here. I am too self-respecting for that. And now here I am - watching relationship shows, reading relationship self-help books and crying, really.

Now I am trying to look at the negative because aren't you supposed to make your pros and cons list of what is good and what is bad? Problem is the "bad" is kind of superficial. Like, for one, he wears sweatpants. Not out in public - because that would be a deal breaker. I have to admit that I have this extreme gross-me-out hatred for sweatpants. The only place they belong is on that KMart shelf - arranged by color because THEN they are part of an installation of color, aesthetically-speaking. Then when you take them out of that color rainbow of fleece - out of their intended context, in my fashion-conscious mind - and put them on your body and "HANG OUT" in them...um....YUCK. Quite simply, YUCK. And they were white! Which is just THE WORST degree of Sweat Pants Wearing Crime one can commit. This first time I saw him in those babies I thought, "Oh no he didn't." And I shielded my eyes from The YUCK. Yet, I never told him, "Dude, lose the sweatpants." I decided THIS was something I could learn to live with.

But if I am looking at the negative, can I now refer to him as The Boyfriend Who Wore White Sweatpants?

The second thing has to do with one of his hobbies. (Which I like about him because he had interests - I don't want all the attention.) One of his hobbies is model airplane building. Which is what a lot of boys did when they were, well, BOYS. But these aren't just sticks and glue. (Or paper which is something I could get into!) We are talking quarter-scale replicas of vintage aircraft that he researches to get an exact replica. Exact. So he puts the little motor in them and remote controls them in the sky and all the little boys come up to him and say, "Cool!" And they cost thousands of dollars individually. AND they have little men (aka dolls!) flying them. I was even going to "geek out" (his word) with him and make a doll for him because he needed one about the size of my cat - so like Mrs. Polly Prissy Pants would do except baby dolls didn't fly these WWI airplanes. Little men did. And they "have to be EXACT." So he didn't like my idea to put a little baby doll in the cockpit. So is THAT what they are talking about when they say I might have dodged the bullet on that one?

Perhaps. So might I refer to him as The Boyfriend With A Little Men Doll Collection?

So I don't know if this relationship is salvageable. We will just see in two weeks. But at least I just cracked myself up. The "break" may be ON but the pity party is OVER.

Work Isn't Working For Me

Yeah, I don’t think I like working.

When I was a wee girl clouded by naivete and visions of sugarplums in my future, I proclaimed, "I will always work! I will keep my last name! I will never be a housewife!" Now that I am a more mature (it's relative) been-there-done-that once-around-the-block kind of girl (and yet, I'm still not "[anyone] from the block") - the novelty has worn thin. I see through that pipe dream. Today I say, "When can I stop working? I will take his name! I will keep a great house and bring him slippers and a cocktail everyday! And I'll still balance the checkbook."

I should have known that work was not all it was cracked up to be when I was 14-15 and decided that NOW would be a good time to get that independent thing rolling. Yes, it all goes back to one hot Florida summer day during my daily bike journey to get the sweet treat when I saw the call of “help wanted.” You know, when ice cream talks...Frankly, this work thing sounded like a great idea to me because it would be money in my pocket - I wouldn't have to ASK for the Jordache, Guess or Esprit. I just didn't realize the, you know, work part of it. To put it in the persona of Will Farrell as George Bush, "Um, you know, uh, uh, work is....work. It's hard..."

Because little did I know that the little Tastee Freeze was run by the Wicked Witch of Dairyland. She was meeaaannnn! I missed that broomstick she rode in on. I mean, when I ordered my daily cone from the lady she was sweet like the ice cream. Birds danced around her head. Who knew she had a sinister side who hoarded all the secrets to the Milkshake Machine from the lay people in the valley yonder. The old lady was on a power trip. Because it went something like this:

Me: I want to work!
Mean Old Lady: You have to work hard brat!
Me: Um, how does this milkshake machine work again?
Mean Old Lady: You dumb idiot, don’t you remember anything? I’m not showing you again, stupid girl.

And so I had to figure it out on my own. Except I never really did. Now, I don't have the transcript of the conversation obviously but that really was the gist of it, I am not kidding about that. She was pretty demeaning. I was practically in tears. And so she would laugh at me. She would watch me and laugh and then finally get all frustrated and grab the container from me. And STILL not show me how it was done. I had ONE shot to learn that milkshake contraption. I don't remember why it was so difficult and I am sure it wasn't but I just wanted another looksie, another tutorial! And she wouldn't give it to me! (Why is that Suicidal Tendencies song going through my head right now? Go back and read the last two sentences then.....Now you got it. Institutionalized. Driving me crazy is right.)

I didn't last another day. It was a horrible experience and when my dad picked me up that evening I was in tears and I never went back to that horrible place. I had to find my cones somewhere else. I think I moved on to the potato logs at the the store, called The Store, across the street from the Tastee Freeze. I probably rode my 10-speed right past the Tastee Freeze in defiant protest, got a box of potato logs, and sat on the picnic tables of the Tastee Freeze. Something salty that didn't come from a milkshake machine. Or a cow.

So the irony here is even though I was always proclaiming - even as recently as two years ago - the "I must work full-time thing." I don't - and didn't - really work much and I never had a plan TO work. I only worked summers in high school and I never worked in college. I don't remember what my answer was to, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Maybe I said the usual wee girl answer, "teacher." Heck, I may have said, "Donna Summer." Because who didn't want to be her when they were in grade school? Boys, you can put your hands down now.

See, this is the crux of my whole problem. I could never answer that question of what do you want to be when you grow up because I didn't think in specifics. "Generally, I want to work. Specifically? We will worry about that when the time comes. I'm five, give me my doll." I am kind of a live-in-the-moment live-for-today kind of girl. (But also a past-haunts-me one too, which means I am a ruer.) But NEVER a forward-thinker. And so it took me some time to figure it out. High school? No clue. College? I waited until the end of my sophomore year and then when my parents suggested I should pick a major that I ENJOY, I decided to choose Art. So I was still in the NOW, doing what made me happy NOW, but with no real plan for the future. Once I was at the end of my senior year, I panicked and then a teacher suggested I work in an art library. I thought, "Well,OK. That sounds good to me." And so I went to graduate school with every intention of being an archivist but then switched that to law librarianship somewhere in the middle because the NOW at the time dictated that the only job I could get in DC was in one of the numerous law firms and HERE we are folks. Don't get me wrong I love being a librarian but....it's still work.

So I am on this housewife kick now. Because my passions are ones that grandmas do. And grandmas don't work! I am a grandma trapped in a 30-year old body. The wrinkles, the walker, and the medicine breath hasn't kicked in yet, but I can Bunko, knit, quilt, do needlework, and watercolor. I have thought about parlaying my hobbies into a career but at this point in my life it needs to be done on the side and well, it also takes vision and planning which I AM NOT GOOD AT - in case you haven't been following along.

Then if you turn your hobby into a career, when is work NOT work? Is that what I meant when I was little, "I will work" is "I will craft?" I think I can do that best sitting on my couch with someone else bringing home the bacon.

I think I will housewife cliche my way out of this post, to practice: Today I need to clean the bathrooms, bake chocolate chip cookies, watch Oprah because I need to know what her favorite things are this year, get the oil changed in the car, get the crockpot going for dinner - the neighbors are coming over, buy the mister some new socks - they keep disappearing in the wash, which also reminds me I need to go to the cleaners, the pharmacy, and must not forget to pick Johnny up from soccer practice.

Wow. THAT sounds like work. I think I will just go to work in the library afterall. Never mind.